


Nocturnal Admissions

by keerawa



Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey
Genre: F/M, Family of Choice, Rape Recovery, Trauma, not explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keerawa/pseuds/keerawa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joscelin could never forget what he had seen in Daršanga.  But he had put it aside and might go weeks without thinking of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nocturnal Admissions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freneticfloetry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freneticfloetry/gifts).



> **Warning:** This story contains non-explicit references to canonical rape and other abuse that occurred in Daršanga.  
>  **Thanks to:** Stevie for the beta, and to freneticfloetry for a very unusual prompt.

Joscelin awoke suddenly with the conviction that something was wrong. He wasn’t certain what had alerted him – some noise perhaps, or a sudden silence. Phèdre was warm and still in his arms. Joscelin sat up and surveyed the bedroom, tensed to protect her from any attack. Nothing.

Joscelin was tempted to lay his head back down, but knew he wouldn’t sleep until he’d satisfied himself that there was no threat. Even after all these years, the role of protector was still more natural to him than that of lover. When he rose, Phèdre made a quiet protesting grumble and settled back into a deeper sleep.

Joscelin pulled on a nightshift and tightened the belt that held his two sheathed daggers at his waist. He paused at the doorway, listening for anything amiss, and then eased the door open and stepped into the hallway. He prowled down the hall, his bare feet sinking into the deep, luxurious carpet, a far cry from the proud simplicity of the monastery.

The guest bedroom next to theirs had been kept vacant for modesty’s sake ever since Thelesis de Mornay composed an ode to Phèdre and Joscelin’s prowess and stamina over breakfast one morning after spending the night. Joscelin checked the room for any intruder; there was no one there.

The next room was Imriel’s. Joscelin cracked open the door and peered inside. Moonlight fell upon an empty, disordered bed. Joscelin’s body reacted to the sudden thrill of adrenaline as his mind raced with possibilities. Had Melisande decided to reclaim her son? Or had some enemy of hers decided that Imriel should be removed from the line of succession? Phèdre had sworn that Imriel would never again be a pawn in the game of thrones, but some things were beyond even her power to control.

Joscelin strode quickly through the house, abandoning silence for speed. Imriel was not in the kitchen looking for a snack. He was not curled up in the library with a book. He was not praying at the shrine of Elua in the garden. He’d not found refuge in the bed of any of their servants or the visiting Habiru scholar who was appalled to see a nearly naked armed man burst into his bedroom in the middle of the night.

Joscelin checked the laundry as a last resort, and found Imriel kneeling there in a nightshift, scrubbing furiously at his sheets. Oh. Joscelin felt his fears slip away. He shrugged on the mantle of fatherhood. It fit him poorly, but there was no one else in Imriel’s life who might wear it.

“Would you like some help with that?” Joscelin asked with a careful humor, stepping into the light.

Imriel looked up. His cheeks weren’t flushed with embarrassment as Joscelin had expected; they were pale and tear-stained. “No,” he said, stepping between Joscelin and the sheets, as if to hide the evidence of his body’s betrayal.

Joscelin chuckled. “You know, I grew up among the Cassiline Brotherhood. An entire monastery of men and boys, all sworn to celibacy? Let me assure you, it wouldn’t be the first time I washed another man’s sheets. If you like, I can finish up while you take a warm bath.”

Imriel’s face was crumpled. “In the brotherhood, wasn’t there some way to, to stop it?”

Joscelin shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Oh, some men said that they’d reached a level of purity beyond that, through fasting and prayer, but honestly I think they were just old.”

Imriel’s head went down, his shoulders hunched. Joscelin was shocked to recognize the look in Imriel’s eyes as a deep and ugly shame. “Imriel, it’s not – it’s not a _sin_.”

It wasn’t. Among the people of Terre d’Ange, nocturnal emissions were considered a sign of Elua’s blessing by the devout; an amusement by the rest. In the brotherhood it might be embarrassing, but there was no carnal intent involved, and so it was never held against a man. Even the Habiru, with their strict beliefs about sexuality, would consider a man who suffered such an event unclean for a day, but did not believe that he had sinned by it.

“You’re old enough now to be interested in a visit to one of the Thirteen Houses. You might want to see Valerian House,” Joscelin suggested, knowing what blood coursed through the boy’s veins. Imriel jerked backwards. “Or Balm House,” he amended.

Imriel stumbled away from Joscelin as if he’d suggested some horror. “No, I won’t,” he said. “I won’t do that, not to whores, not to anyone.”

Joscelin ignored the instinctive flare of anger the demeaning word provoked in him when Imriel collided with the wall and slid down it to huddle with his arms around his knees.

Joscelin had forgotten. Well, not forgotten, exactly. Joscelin could never forget what he had seen in Daršanga. But he had put it aside and might go weeks without thinking of it.

 _Ill thoughts, ill words, ill deeds._ The act of love twisted by selfishness and cruelty. Phèdre’s pain was a sacred gift she offered to her patrons in Terre D’Ange for their mutual delight. Joscelin would never truly understand it, but he recognized the beauty of an anguisette’s calling. In Daršanga, the Mahrkagir had used her gift with savage and blasphemous intent.

Phèdre was strong. Despite all that the Mahrkagir had done to her, she had endured and prevailed. She was still sensual and joyous, with only a touch of shadow remaining from what she had suffered.

Imriel, though. Imriel’s first time, and his second, and his hundredth, had been in those halls. An innocent, beautiful child, his body and spirit had been abused to the very limits. Imriel had no way to distinguish between his own natural urges and the tortures that had been inflicted upon him and the others of the zenana. He’d carried that poison within him, across the continents, through every danger until here, safe and loved in his own home, it drove him to his knees.

Joscelin examined Imriel closely. He saw shame and horror and self-loathing painted across the perfect features that had made the boy a prize. Imriel suffered. He feared that he was a monster. As a priest, as a _father_ , Joscelin needed to help Imriel, to explain, to show him that was not the case. Yet he hadn’t the faintest idea how to make Imriel believe him; what words could overcome the horrors of Daršanga?

Perhaps Phèdre would know what to do. In the mean-time …

“The Cassiline Brotherhood never found a cure for nocturnal emissions, but they did teach me a certain palliative.”

Imriel looked up at him with a spark of hope in his eyes.

“Stand up,” Joscelin ordered.

Imriel scrambled to his feet. Joscelin drew his twin daggers, crossed them and bowed, before flipping them round and offering the blades, hilt-first, to Imriel. “Training,” he said. “Train until you drop and I guarantee there will be nothing but sleep going on in your bed, or your head.”

Imriel reached out to take the daggers and offered him a hesitant bow in return. He’d obviously been watching, and practicing on his own.

“Get dressed and meet me in the garden,” Joscelin said. Imriel scampered out of the laundry. Joscelin stopped off on the way to his bedroom to quietly ask the house-keeper to provide Imriel with fresh sheets before dawn. There was a certain peace to be found in the training forms of the Order, a meditation of movement that, no matter the circumstances, reminded Joscelin of who he was at the core, and what truly mattered. Perhaps he could offer Imriel some shelter from the memories that haunted him.

If not, he could certainly exhaust the boy until Phèdre came up with something better.


End file.
